Iron (for professor Bogumila Rouba) / Poem by Eliza Segiet

In the apparent space of life
the iron had a soul,
that did not die
not even slowly.
Only an emaciated hand
got cold on an empty table.
On both sides of the wall
telepathy associated
ashes with life.
Remember, my grandson,
you were born a human,
but once there was war,
and on it new homes were sown.